


Goddamn Lonely Love/Love Like This

by romanticalgirl



Series: behind the song [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:04:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the Drive By Truckers songs of the same names</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goddamn Lonely Love/Love Like This

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 4-28-08

She burns hotter than the sun, faster and brighter, and the lights shine on her like stars, falling from the sky and sizzling to nothing as she absorbs them. She’s something better than nothing, and he knows better than to keep watching, because he wants the nothing that his life has become, even if he can’t have that nothing anymore.

Not that home - nothing - is all that great. Too much booze and a bottle broken to shards and wasted whiskey soaking the floorboards he passes out on, waking up shivering from the coldness radiating from the bed that used to be warm enough without him, hotter with him. They used to be in love, make love, make it all mean something, but now he’s here, looking at temptation like it’s worth giving into, knowing that he’s already halfway across the bar by the time it’s too late to say no.

He doesn’t ask and she doesn’t say yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that the hallway to the emergency exit is dark and the bathrooms are deserted, worse off than most of the sadness hanging off barstools and booths in the other room. She tastes like beer and lipstick, cheap and waxy, but he devours it, boosting her and her short skirt up onto the bathroom sink, his eyes open and his reflection staring back at him. She could be anyone and he’s no one but himself, so at least he knows who to blame.

She’s hot and wet and dressed for sex, so it’s not hard to find himself inside her, her legs wrapped around him and the porcelain cold against his thighs. The back of her head is against the glass and her mouth is open, the wheeze-whine of arousal pitched just above comfortable. He doesn’t want comfort though, or he’d be home or the closest thing he has to it, reveling in the small moments before it all goes to hell. Her nails rake at his shirt and he feels the rough edges of her high heels against his ass, scraping away skin. The pain makes it better and he grips the sink, driving inside her, closing his eyes long enough to forget, long enough to remember.

He hates the after – sticky and flavored like cotton candy on a sour stomach, spun sugar and bile – and the awkward, watching her put herself back together as his dick shrinks and they both pretend that they’re somewhere else, someone else. Instead, they’re them and the music is loud outside the door and he should at least buy her a beer or something stronger to wash the taste away.


End file.
